Istra was still asleep, but her cheek now
lay wistfully on the crook of her thin arm. He looked at the
auburn-framed paleness of her face, its lines of thought and
ambition, unmasked, unprotected by the swift changes of
expression which defended her while she was awake. He sobbed.
If he could only make her happy! But he was afraid of her moods.
He built a fire by a brooklet beyond the willows, boiled the
eggs and toasted the bread and made the tea, with cream ready in
a jar. He remembered boyhood camping days in Parthenon and old
camp lore. He returned to the stack and called, "Istra--oh, Is-tra!"
She shook her head, nestled closer into the straw, then sat up,
her hair about her shoulders. She smiled and called down:
"Good morning. Why, it's afternoon! Did you sleep well, dear?"
"Yes. Did you? Gee, I hope you did!"
"Never better in my life. I'm so sleepy yet. But comfy.
I needed a quiet sleep outdoors, and it's so peaceful here.
Breakfast! I roar for breakfast! Where's the nearest house?"
"Got breakfast all ready.
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